A Stern Talking
by Goldie Gamgee
Summary: Peregrin Took is now the proud father of Faramir Took. However, Pippin remembers how he was as a child, and he doesn't want Faramir to turn out the same. One-shot.


**A/N: Ok, this is the first fanfiction I've posted up here. Be gentle!** About this:

Name: A Stern Talking 

Fandom: Lord of the Rings

Genres: Comfort

Key Characters: Pippin, Diamond, Faramir

Author: Goldie Gamgee

Why I wrote this: Because I had this imagining that Pippin would be far more mature as a husband and father. I wanted to show this in this one-shot.

Person: First Person, Pippin's point of view.

Date Started: 23rd November 2013

Date Ended: 20th December 2013

Status: Complete

Blurb: Peregrin Took is now the proud father of Faramir Took. However, Pippin remembers how he was as a child, and he doesn't want Faramir to turn out the same. One-shot.

A Stern Talking

[S.R. 1430, 21st Wedmath]

'Isn't he just _gorgeous_?'

'Oh, goodness, look at those _eyes_!'

'He's the splitting image of you, Pippin.'

I sit on the couch, smiling politely and taking in the compliments. Diamond sits beside me, grinning broadly, cradling the four month-old edition to our family.

My son.

It sounds so strange, calling somebody _my son_. I had supposed it'd happen sooner or later. Di and me had been trying for _years_. At one point, I could tell she was ready to give up.

And now we sit in the living room of Crickhollow, being cooed over by my parents, my three sisters _and_ their husbands and children. Quite frankly, the attention is making my head throb.

'Would you like to hold him, Pip?' Diamond holds out my son. Without answering, I take him gently in my arms and pull him closer.

He stares up at me with big, grey-green eyes. My heart pounds steadily in my chest, and a breath catches in my throat. It has been only four months yet, but he can still catch me out like that. He really does look so much like me.

Then I feel a change come over me, quite suddenly. I don't want my son to be like me.

He looks so innocent, blinking rapidly, his cheeks round and rosy. I honestly cannot believe he will turn out like me. But he _will_. He will be the same cheeky, rebellious, insensitive and disrespecting young Took I once was- I still am, in some cases.

I don't want him to be like me. Determination fills my eyes. This lad needs a stern talking to.

'Tis mid-afternoon, and Diamond is sleeping in our bedroom. Merry and Estella, who are living with us in Crickhollow, are not here.

I make my way to Faramir's cot, which sits in the corner of our room.

Faramir is tucked snugly inside, perfectly silent but completely awake. He blinks once, twice and then gurgles as he recognises me.

I gently take him from the cot, taking care to support his head, and cradle him in my arms. I make my way out of the room.

I plonk myself down in the large armchair in the living room. I decide then it is going to be _my_ armchair. My father always had his special armchair that nobody was allowed to sit in 'cept him. He guarded it fiercely- and when he was not there Pervinca would tattle on anyone who dared sit on it. I reckon I am allowed to claim the armchair, seeing as I am now the father. I _am_ holding my son.

Faramir has the most electric green eyes. They are big and wet and beautiful. He is the most handsome baby _I've_ ever seen. My three sister's children always seemed too big or too small or too chubby or slightly out of proportion or too spindly. But my son is the most perfect little gem of a child. He is perfect in size and proportion, he has the most adorable eyes and the most adorable, small mouth, that is always open slightly in such a way that suits him (but would make other babies seem gormless). He has such a tiny, delicate nose and the cutest of ears.

In fact, the only other baby that could possibly compete with him would be Elanor Gamgee, who is more like a small elf-maiden then a hobbit. However, that would not be fair, as she is a lass.

Faramir stares up at me with his big green eyes. He's wondering what's going on. With his eyes, he asks me.

'Now, young Faramir,' I say in a brisk manner, 'I've been worrying terribly about you.'

How so? His eyes ask. He frowns a little.

'You see,' I continue, 'When I was a lad, I was the biggest terror for my parents. I was very, very naughty and disrespectful to all of my elders.'

Faramir makes a gurgling noise.

'And everyone is saying how much you look like me, so I assume you will turn out like me in personality. So I decide to take this little opportunity to say- try your best not to…' I waver a little bit, wondering how to express what I'm thinking.

Faramir draws it out of me with his eyes.

'… just… don't be like me…' I whisper.

Memories flash through my mind. I can hear myself speak joyfully, the smell of ale on my breath. I speak of Bilbo's party. I draw nearer and nearer to the disappearance, and the Bree-landers listen closely. Closer and closer I get to ruining everything, but I carry on, silly and ignorant…

I can see the stone. I can see my curiosity getting the better of me. I can hear the clunking of the rock, echoing through the chasm of aching darkness. And what followed… darkness and then blood and then the whip of fire…

I see him, I see him now like I saw him then. The lidless eye seeks me. I walk in the dark, and he is there behind me. He finds me. He searches me, probing through my mind freely, and I scream. It hurts, it burns, and the flame nearly devours me before I am awoken. Gandalf is in front of me, and in his eyes I can see-

'…don't be a fool of a Took.'

I don't realize tears are flowing freely down my cheeks till Faramir looks at me quizzically. I take a deep shuddering breath and sigh.

_I don't want him to turn out like me. _

Faramir reaches out a chubby hand to me. I take it gently.

'Don't turn out like me, Faramir.' I tell him.

_I won't_, he says in a glance. _Don't worry, pa._

'What sort of nonsense are you feeding to our son?' Diamond wanders in.

I feel better now that the tears have dried from my cheeks. I look up at her. She looks very mum-sy in a creased flowery dress, her hair in a messy bun atop her head. Her curls are trying their best to escape from the hair band.

I grin at her, and lie: 'Giving him some tips on lasses.'

Di laughs. 'Really? I suppose he'll be an expert by the time he comes of age.'

'Well, he'll have learnt from the best,' I joke.

Di laughs again. 'Give him here- he needs to be fed.'

I hand my son over to my wife. Somehow, it doesn't seem strange anymore, calling him _my son_. Because, well, he is _my son_, and I am his father. I smile, and absentmindedly add:

'Oh, and by the way, that armchair is mine now.'


End file.
